


End of the Line: 1

by wirtleberg



Series: End of the Line [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Dominant/Top Dean, Emotional Hurt, Falling In Love, Fingerfucking, First Time, Fisting, Hurt, Longing, M/M, Pining, Purgatory, Rating:NC17, Submissive/Bottom Dean, Topping from the Bottom, Unrequited Love, hurt!Benny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wirtleberg/pseuds/wirtleberg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Benny did a lot, lot more than just kill things together in Purgatory. How will Benny manage now alone in the world without Dean? Particularly as he's just had a terrible realisation, about the vampire heart ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	End of the Line: 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at fanfiction and I'd really appreciate some feedback or concrit. Thank you dear reader ... :)

  
He slams the van door then gropes for the phone that always seems too small for his hands, too fragile. The rush starts in the pit of his stomach. "Dean?" Just saying the word warms him. "Dean … I’m thanking you mightily, bud, I’m in a hard way here. How close are you brother?" He feels himself starting to relax, the tension of weeks spent alone and hungry beginning to drain. He wants to smile, just hearing Dean's voice can do that for him these days.  
"I’m sorry man, I’m not going to make it.”  
Benny turns abruptly and moves to sit on the nearby wall, oblivious to the sea, to boats and distant forest. Nothing exists except the anchor of the voice in his hand, the voice that means he's not alone here. He closes his eyes.  
"You mean now, or …?"  
"Listen, Benny, I’ll never forget everything you’ve done for me man, but this is it."  
Something lances through him: panic, pain? Someone not him says, "End of the line?"  
There’s a pause, a hesitation. Everything now is focused, concentrated on the next moment, the next second. He doesn't really need to breathe but feels his lungs go still anyway. Then,  
“End of the line.”  
He speaks without thinking, his mouth seeming to open and close, involuntary and ridiculous. "Yeah, well, I never liked these cell phones anyway."  
"You stay good, alright?"  
He can hear the almost smile in Dean's voice and behind that, the warning. He should hate that, the conditionality of what they have. Had.  
"You too Dean."  
Is this it? Panic flares threatening to choke him. So much he wants to say, to show, but what comes out now is the least part of what he really feels. "Thanks brother. Thanks for the ride."  
There's that pause again, he feels it like a void around which everything that is him circles. He opens his eyes to the darkness behind his shades. Dean says, "Yeah man. Adios."

He gets up from the wall, suddenly aware that it's no longer day. Lights have come on along the harbour and there are fewer cars, fewer people about. He walks stiffly towards the van, his body feeling almost human, old and tired. He’s hungry, really fucking hungry. Hungry and needing, not just the blood but the feel of something warm and alive in his hands, a body yielding to him, giving him what he needs, what he's needed for decades and denied himself. Taking the last bag of blood from the cooler box he's about to twist it open when he remembers how he got it. Dean. Closing his eyes he remembers sitting slumped and bleeding and Dean, Dean coming towards him lifeblood literally in his hands. He touches the soft plastic with callused fingertips, almost reverently. Dean gave him this, helped him mightily, yeah that was the word, when he couldn't help himself. The thought 'that will never happen again' strikes him with an agony so powerful, so shrill, that he clutches at the sides of the van to stop himself falling. There’s an unfamiliar burning sensation behind his eyes then there's water, (is it water?) running down his face. The bag is still in his hand and he considers laying it under his shirt next his skin; that won't warm it, but having it close might feel good? Dropping the bag into the cooler he slams the back of the van shut.

It's getting light when he reaches the edge of the Adirondacks. He drives into the forest, not wondering where he's going or why, seeing the occasional cabin, the occasional road leading to camps, to homesteads, invisible behind the trees. When even the dirt road is no more than a track he slows and winds down the window. It's cool here and shadowy. The giant pines tower above the van, above him. There's a narrow road overhung by trees and blocked after 100 m or so by a log barrier. He turns into it, shuts off the engine and sits for a moment hands still on the wheel. He stares out the windscreen, wondering how the fuck he got here, how he drove from the Catskills without seeing a thing.

Coffee. Yeah, he’d said he wanted a coffee. It didn't sound so much, not put like that. But of course that wasn't really it, not at all and Dean had known that, for sure. He opens and closes the van door quietly, starts to walk fast, moving between dark tree trunks, feet silent on the thick carpet of needles. Daylight doesn't reach down here, there's a twilight feeling, a stillness that is almost damn perfect. He stops and looks around smiling. Purgatory. This place is the nearest he's gonna to get to Purgatory. And to Dean. He throws down cap and jacket, and dropping to his knees digs his hands hard through soil and rotting pine needles then rubs them over hair and beard, over hands and wrists. Moving on all fours he crawls to the base of a tree and sits, legs stretched out in front of him. Somewhere out there, somewhere on the other side of the country, Dean is maybe sitting with his real brother, maybe sharing a beer. Benny smiles tentatively, like he's trying it on for size, picturing Dean with the tall, hard-eyed man he’d met for just those few, angry moments but would have fought for, maybe even cared for one day, had he been allowed. "Look out for him brother, look out for my Dean," he says.  
He knows Dean’s never, not ever, gonna tell Sam what passed between them in Purgatory. And it’s good that Sam shouldn’t have that to stick on his Benny hate list. He smiles for real. Fuck! There wouldn’t be enough big country to put between them if Sam ever learned about Dean and him.  
He lays his head back against the trunk of the tree and closes his eyes, lifting his hands to his face, breathing in the rich scents of damp and decay. He knows, how could he not know given how often he’s done it before, that he can call Dean up any time. Not on the stupid plastic thing still sitting in his pocket, but inside, in his mind's eye. Ain't that what they call it? Minds eye? Except the Dean he's feeling ain't in his head at all but somewhere around his chest and gut — and lower. He lets himself drift there, to where Dean is at and …  
“Jesus God!” There it is again, the same piercing agony that had almost dropped him on the road beside the harbour. Instinctively he tries to pull away from it, to step back into the half numb, half accepting state of just a moment before and realises it’s too late. “Fuck, fuck, oh fuck!” He doubles over arms wrapped around his belly. "Dean … brother …". Grief rips through him, blinding and he does the only thing he knows to do. Lies down on the ground and holds out his arms to the pain, to Dean, and pulls it in close, real close. He can feel Dean's heat, the solidness of him, muscle n' bone n' blood, everything thrumming, thrumming like the engine of that ol’ black car of his. Dean, present and erect. Despite everything he chokes out a half-laugh. That was Dean, always ready for something, fighting, fucking, and killing. He’d been good at that, the killing, like he got a powerful pleasure from it that he needed again and again. Benny’s eyes squeeze tight but his face is slippery wet. He can't remember the last time he wept before today, maybe when he was human, maybe not even then. He feels Dean under him, around him, drawing him in. In to the blind merging he's always craved and found only once before with Andrea, and he’d died for that.

It’d always been that way, him fucking Dean. Sometimes it would start out kinda like fighting, pushing and shoving at each other, not sure what was really happening, like animals trying for position, never turning their backs to one another. Dean was strong, quick, a lifelong hunter, which said something, sure. But when it came down to it, which it usually did, he lacked the one thing made all the difference. He was no predator. So, they'd sucked quick and dirty on each others mouths and cocks and teats and that place where the neck joins the shoulder and if the monsters stayed away long enough they’d fuck their way around Purgatory with him buried as deep inside of Dean as a body could get and still be separate.  
He shudders, that feeling of being peeled, turned inside out, rushing through him again. ‘Cos Dean could do that to him easy as blinking. Dean could spread his legs for Benny, or bend over the stump of a tree, pants around his ankles, could take it all, fingers, cock and even, once, his fist. That fist had hurt, really hurt, and seeing the pain on Dean's face he'd wanted to stop, even though the feeling of slick, wet warmth gripping his hand had been a rush almost better than blood. But before he could start to pull out Dean’d hissed through tight clamped teeth, “Do it man, jus’ fucking do it! I ain't no pussy you need worry ‘bout bruising …" So he’d punched right on in and up and been amazed at how Dean's body finally drew him in, smooth flesh rippling along his forearm like some underwater creature while Dean keened like a dying man.  
Benny runs one dry hand along that arm, memory fresh and alive. Oh yeah, Dean’s ass hole was just like the man himself, wide open and hungry. But even moaning an’ grinding like a $20 whore, Dean could still leave him feeling like he was the one who'd just given it all up and burned.

Then there was the one time, just the one, when he'd looked at Dean and said "Fuck me," and good ol’ Dean’d recognised it at once for what it was, an invitation and not a cussin'. They'd been sitting facing each other across a small fire and Benny remembers the light that danced in Dean's eyes when he’d said "Sure, man. Let’s give it a go".  
Even now, he's not certain why he did it, why he let it happen, why he wanted it to happen. He’d never had a guy in that way, so maybe it was just curiosity. He'd thought it likely Dean would take the opportunity to fuck him raw, to hammer him down into the dirt and get some payback for all the bleeding and whining, all the face-down he'd given up for Benny. At the time, that’d seemed only fair. But it wasn't like that, not at all like that and he'd been transfixed and finally terrified as Dean made love to him, all softly sweet and relentless, stroking and licking at his most secret places, teasing him open until he'd felt himself dissolve in Dean's hands.

Benny rolls onto his back, feeling Dean's weight on him again, a wonderful, crushing weight, warm and alive. He wraps his arms round his body and closes his eyes. And Dean is in him and moving slow, slower until he sees Benny's used to it, to this new stabbing pain that relaxes down into a feeling, a sensation of pleasure he's never imagined. He writhes, wanton and sweating, and wants to laugh as he makes those whining whore sounds he’s used to hearing from Dean's mouth. Even fucking him Dean is gentle, tender. Stroking and kissing him, lips and fingers caressing and soothing. It’s all so unexpected he feels dislocated, awkward, but loving it too with a fierce joy so that he wants to shout and hit the ground with his fists. Then it's real intense and he’s suddenly aware of himself, of him, Benny Lafitte, split open on another man’s cock, exposed and overwhelmed. Shyness, equally unexpected, sweeps over him so strong and raw he starts to shut his eyes, but instead glances up at Dean who hangs in the air above him, braced on taut shoulders, breathing hard. Firelight flickers on the side of that face, on those wide, clear eyes, fixed on his own. Looking into those eyes Benny feels like something’s being shaken loose, like he’s starting to come apart… not just his body, but him, the thing that IS him, separate and whole. Then he’s seeing himself through Dean’s eyes and with a terrifying jolt of fear and yearning realises he can’t tell where he starts and Dean ends.  
And that's when it had happened.

Blinking he sits up, slowly. The sun has passed overhead and somewhere behind the trees is starting to drop toward the horizon and night. He shakes himself, shakes out his wrists and shoulders, wipes a hand across his face. Christ he’s hungry! But that's OK, because he knows now, knows for sure, what happened in that moment and why he's turned into a needy fucking bitch. Not his fault, really not his fault. "Dean, brother ... what have you done to me?" Grasping the tree trunk he stands up, fingers digging into the soft bark as he sways, steadying himself and only then realises, with a shiver, that he's fully dressed and it had never even occured to him to touch himself. Christ! He's so utterly (not) fucked. He starts to laugh, small hiccuping sounds that die away leaving just the silence of the forest.

He'd known it could happen, been vaguely aware that it was possible between vamps, a kind of urban myth, something whispered but never witnessed. Never between a vamp and a human tho’ and never, ever, one-sided. Some vamps … Jesus! even thinking it makes him want to weep again … some vamps, the ones who didn’t just fuck but loved hard, mated for life, bonded to each other until death or eternity swept them apart. Benny shivers, fear and a growing awareness of future grief starting its way through his belly and up into his chest; his head bows. This is it then, his life from here on in, if he chooses to live it. No Dean, not even his voice at the end of a line; always longing, always hungry. He could try an’ get himself killed - some good ol' boy hunter would surely oblige - slip quietly out of this world and … and back to Purgatory. To Purgatory with no Dean in it.  
He starts to shake. Hunger, it's just hunger. He has that last bag of blood back in the van. Can’t think past that ‘last’ just now. Brushing pine needles and dirt out of his hair and beard he starts walking through the trees and towards the road.  



End file.
